


Skulls, Death and Writer's Block

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover with stranger than fiction, Dark Comedy, It's all happy, John is flirty, M/M, Romance, really - Freeform, sherlock is cray cray, this isnt depressing actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about a man named Sherlock Holmes and his skull. Sherlock Holmes was a man of infinite numbers, endless calculations, and annoyingly millions of words. The skull disapproved, but couldn’t speak, so he didn’t comment on it. Every weekday, for four years, Sherlock would brush each of his thirty-two teeth seventy-six times. Thirty-eight times back and forth, thirty-eight times up and down. Every weekday, for four years, Sherlock would button six of his eight shirt buttons, thereby saving up to forty-three seconds. His skull thought the decrease of button-use made his collar-bones stick out, but said nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skulls, Death and Writer's Block

**Author's Note:**

> So gaytectives wanted a Stranger Than Fiction/Sherlock crossover. This is the result.

_This is a story about a man named Sherlock Holmes and his skull. Sherlock Holmes was a man of infinite numbers, endless calculations, and annoyingly millions of words. The skull disapproved, but couldn’t speak, so he didn’t comment on it. Every weekday, for four years, Sherlock would brush each of his thirty-two teeth seventy-six times. Thirty-eight times back and forth, thirty-eight times up and down. Every weekday, for four years, Sherlock would button six of his eight shirt buttons, thereby saving up to forty-three seconds. His skull thought the decrease of button-use made his collar-bones stick out, but said nothing._

_Every weekday, for four years, Sherlock would run at a rate of nearly forty one steps per minute, barely catching the 8:17 underground. And every day, for four years, Sherlock would solve an average of 0.7 cases as the world’s only official consulting detective._

_Beyond that, Sherlock lived a life of solitude. He would walk home alone. He would eat alone. And precisely 11:54 every night, Sherlock would play the violin alone, bar the skull that lay on the mantelpiece beside him. That was, of course, before Wednesday. On Wednesday, Sherlock's skull changed everything._

 

In another part of London, a few miles away from where Sherlock Holmes resided at 221B Baker Street, a middle-aged stocky man stood on a weighing scale, and frowned at the weight that he had gained in recent months.

 

Just a few roads away from there, a flat is bought by and sold to a young Irishman named Richard Brook.

_If anyone had asked Sherlock, he would have said that that particular Wednesday was exactly like all the other Wednesdays prior. And he began it the same way he always did; brushing his teeth exactly seve-_

Sherlock Holmes paused and looked wildly around the largely empty flat in confusion, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Whose voice had that been? After pausing and listening out to the loud silence for more than a few seconds, the detective shook off the strange sensation that he was being watched. He’d mark it down to his lack of sleep, having only caught three hours of the tedious event in the last week. He turned his attention back to the mirror, staring sheepishly at his pale reflection before resuming the boring task of brushing his-

_-nty six times. When others’ minds would-_

“Hello?” Sherlock piped up, removing the brush from his mouth and spitting out the frothy toothpaste. “Lestrade?” he called out loudly, becoming slowly aware of how much he sounded like a character from a bad horror film. Determined to snap out of his cheesy role, he marched out of the bathroom, dressing gown bound, and pointedly stared at the entrance to the flat, to see whether or not the occupant of the mysterious voice would miraculously appear. A minute passed before the youngest Holmes blinked several times and ran his slender fingers through the black (and admittedly greasy) curls on his head. Perhaps it had been someone downstairs. That would make sense. More sense than a mysterious voice following him around. That was absurd. Absolutely ridiculous-

_When others’ minds would fantasise about their upcoming day, or even try to grip onto the final moments of their dreams, Sherlock just counted brush strokes._

Not like Sherlock would ever admit so to anyone else, but his heart was racing frantically. That definitely wasn’t anyone downstairs, or even in his flat. That was a voice in his head. Was he going mad? It was quite the possibility. But he decided to reject that idea for now and store it in his mind palace. There had to be a more logical explanation.

“Who just said that?” he asked aloud, annoyed at how loud and stupid his low voice sounded echoing about the apartment. “Who just said ‘Sherlock counted brush strokes’?”

No reply.

Delicately, Sherlock placed the toothbrush back into the container he kept beside the sink for convenience, and slinked off to his bedroom. No voices followed him there, thankfully. The young man sighed, and warily stripped to start getting ready for the day ahead. The Fisherbourne case had been taunting him all week; the only reason he slept at _all_ was to satisfy Lestrade, who had commented on Sherlock’s dizziness when he had almost fallen down the stairs of Scotland Yard. “I’m fine!” Holmes had protested as he shook the D.I off of him. “Go home,” Greg repeated, with increasing annoyance. So to ensure the received any cases at all in the future, Sherlock had reluctantly left for the night.

There hadn’t been any voices before he went asleep. Why now? Perhaps he was still dreaming-

_It was remarkable how the simple, modest-_

Sherlock stopped, sighed, and then resumed buttoning up his choice purple shirt, deciding to listen out to the voice to perhaps pinpoint the identity of them.

_It was remarkable how the simple, modest elements of Sherlock’s life, so often taken for granted, would become the catalyst for an entirely_ new _life-_

Sherlock closed his eyes, and just tried to drown it out with his own thoughts.

 

_This would be the last dash Sherlock would make for the 8:17 underground train, the last morning Sherlock would hear his breath leap from his throat, the last day his still leather shoes would make that terrible squeaking sound as they flexed against the concrete._

Sherlock froze mid-step, and stared down at his feet, leather clad indeed against the pavement, and frowned in annoyance. “My shoes don’t _squeak_ ,” he shouted to the skies, as if the voice would descend from the heavens to confront the matter. This was much to the worried glances of those pedestrians around the detective, who all edged away from the seemingly mad man.

A beeping noise on his wristwatch alerted him at that moment, and Sherlock flung his arm to eye-height to see with a small angry flush- 8.17. He had missed the underground, information to which Sherlock swore loudly to, racing down the steps of the busy tunnel, his shoes now choosing to noticeable squeak in defiance to their owner.

_...for this was an extraordinary day; a day to be remembered for the rest of Sherlock’s life._

“DAMN!” Sherlock yelled as he watched the rattling machine pull away from the station just as he sprinted inside, head pounding from an oncoming migraine and aggravation at recent events. What luck he had.

_But of course, Sherlock just thought it was a Wednesday._

Sherlock snarled at the air, stomping down his foot and burying his face in his hands, gripping his hair tightly. Who the _hell_ was that voice? Suddenly, he whirled around and grabbed a nearby startled Polish woman by the shoulders.

“Did you hear that?”

The woman just stared back in fear at the bedraggled and clearly crazy man before her.

“The- the-the... the voice. Did you hear it? ‘Sherlock just thought it was a Wednesday...’” he attempted to explain, slowly loosening the grip on her shoulders as it dawned on him that whatever was happening, it was for his ears only. She attempted a shaky, but gentle smile, almost condescending.

“Don’t worry. It _is_ Wednesday.” Sherlock just shook his head back, irritation rising inside him like bile.

“No. Did you hear it: ‘Sherlock just thought it was a Wednesday.’”

“Who’s Sherlock?”

“I’m Sherlock,” he spat, growing exasperated by her obvious lack of IQ points.

“Sherlock,” she repeated slowly, frowning, and starting to edge away. People were beginning to stare now, and a few policemen nearby were watching on with suspicion. “It’s okay. It is Wednesday.”

This conversation was winding around in circles.

“No. I... No. The voice said it was ‘just a Wednesday’.” One of the policemen was approaching now, pushing his way through the on looking crowd.

“Voice is right,” she said slowly, obviously becoming frightened of the deranged creature demanding answers. “It’s Wednesday.”

“I... No. I’m...” The policeman was now between them, grim and concerned, gently pulling the little woman away from Sherlock and taking a steady step towards him.

“Sir, I’ll have to ask you to stop bothering this lady. You’re frightening the other passengers.”

Sherlock didn’t utter another word until he arrived at Scotland Yard.

 

The trip to Scotland Yard left Sherlock an awful lot of time to think, since the voice seemed to take a break from narrating his life after the emotional scarring of the foreign woman. He decided to lay out the possibilities in his head- what were the rational explanations?

  1. Hearing a voice in one’s head is an obvious and worrying symptom of both schizophrenia and mania. So he was mad. That was a very reasonable explanation, and honestly not surprising. Being surrounded by idiots day in, day out? No wonder they had driven him to insanity. Although, if this were the case, the second anyone found out, they’d say things like, “I always knew there was something wrong with him,” or call him a freak. Mycroft would send him off to some institution for the crazy, and he’d spend the rest of his days withering away in a white coat sipping soup out of straws and in therapy offices.  
Sherlock would not allow this.
  2. He was a part of a large conspiracy that involved people following him and narrating what he was doing into a microphone in his brain.
  3. ...
  4. ...
  5. He was definitely mad, becoming paranoid now, too? The way he was thinking, he’d be in an asylum before long. How dreadful to have an existence based around how an individual differs from the crowd, your whole life built on the foundations of your madness. Society was cruel, but Sherlock already knew that.



 

The police station was having a good day before Sherlock Holmes arrived. There had been donuts, everyone seemed to be in a somewhat cheerful mood, and they had successfully solved the Fisherbourne case without the help of the consulting detective.

“You did _what_?!” Sherlock growled angrily, slamming his fists down on the IKEA desk, sending a pen-holder toppling to the floor, causing Lestrade to irritably sigh, flinging his hands over his head in an exasperated fit.

“Oh, stop acting like a child, Sherlock! In case it’s escaped you, it’s _our_ job to solve the cases that we can, and _yours_ to do the cold cases and ones that we can’t. So suck it up, or no more cases at all!” the D.I. snapped, picking up the pens with a single smooth motion. Sherlock grabbed onto his own hair (still awfully greasy, when was the last time he showered? He should have done that this morning) and whined, but not saying anymore on the subject. God knows Lestrade would stay true to his promise.

“Look,” Greg started over, in a more gentle tone as he noticed Sherlock’s distress, “I can give you some paperwork to fill in, if you want, and I’ll let you know if anything new comes up. Okay?” Paperwork was boring, but it was better than letting his mind turn inwards. Sherlock nodded stiffly, and twenty minutes later found himself occupying a previously empty desk with piles of paperwork on the case.

_Sherlock couldn’t truly concentrate on his work..._

For God’s sake. Sherlock stood up quickly, almost tipping over his chair before storming away for the desk, in a futile attempt to escape the voice.

_He was lost._

“Shut up,” he growled angrily, realising that Anderson had been walking past, who flashed him a dirty, pissed off look.

“Oi, Freak!” he hissed back, halting the detective in his footsteps. “I didn’t _say_ anything! Crazy.”

_When a particularly stupid police officer insulted Sherlock, he suddenly found he was unable to fathom any variety of a good comeback._

“Uh,” Sherlock said, trying to shake off the voice and find some sneaky way to insul;t the idiot before him. “I...”

Anderson’s stupid mouth dropped open, his mouth going slack, before his eyes lit up with glee and he let out a short, fake laugh. “What’s wrong _Sherly_?”

“What?” he asked stupidly in return, as the voice began to make other useless statements about what was going on, and he found himself at a standstill. Lestrade had taken note of what was happening, curiously cocking his head at the scene from the printers in the corner. Something strange rose inside him, that the young man hadn’t felt since school when the other kids would beat him up a little and call him names. The feeling that he was losing in the situation. That was new. And... it made him ashamed.

Without a second to spare, Sherlock Holmes, the man who always had to have the final word on an argument, rushed off, feeling his cheeks redden against his will. What was wrong with him?!

The bathrooms. Nobody would bother him there.

Locking the door behind him let Sherlock finally breathe, albeit raggedly. That had been.. embarrassing. But since when did he become embarrassed? Or stutter, for God’s sake? Sherlock wiped his brow shakily, before sitting down on the toilet seat, burying his face in his cold hands. A throbbing in his brain signalled a headache again and he groaned, slapping himself in the face a little, but not enough to hurt. This day wasn’t going his way in any aspect.

Knock, knock, knock. “Sherlock? Everything okay?” It was Lestrade, stupid, good-natured Lestrade. At this moment in time, he was probably the person Sherlock hated the least. Holmes hesitated, before unlocking the door and steeping out, attempting to look even half graceful.

“Everything’s fine, Lestrade,” he answered smoothly, moving over to the sinks to busy himself with washing his hands, and not looking the grey-haired detective in the face, even though he knew he was staring at him sadly.

“Sherlock... Sherlock!” Lestrade repeated sharply, so Sherlock lowly glanced up at him with his piercing blue eyes, meeting the sad puppy-like ones that Lestrade had inherited.

Lestrade wasn’t the sort of person to talk about him behind his back. Perhaps he could confide in him... Damn, this made him feel like a teenage girl.

“I think I’m being followed,” he muttered carefully, seeing Lestrade’s expression go from concern to doubt. His heart sank, strangely, and he looked down again, hiding behind his mop of dark brown hair.

“You’re being... Followed? You’re not even moving.” Stupid, simple, Lestrade.

“I’m...” Sherlock paused, looking around to make sure that the voice wouldn’t start up again, before continuing, “It’s by a voice.”

“What?”

“I’m being followed by a man’s voice.”

The pause that followed only increased Lestarde’s facial expression of worry. He was scared, Sherlock realised. Of him? For him?

“Okay. That’s... Fine. What’s this voice saying?” He was being gentle, damn it all, like he was on edge and could snap at any moment.

“He’s narrating.”

“Sherlock, you’re standing in the bathroom, at the sink. What on earth could he be narrating?” Sherlock was about to interrupt to grumpily explain that he wasn’t speaking _now_ , when-

_Why was Sherlock standing here, talking to this idiot? He could be doing anything with his life right now; riding a motorbike, living his childhood dreams, listening to Bob Marley classics. Instead he was in the second floor bathroom in Scotland Yard, speaking to some insufferable idiot who probably didn’t even know how to tell a pilot by his left thumb._

Sherlock froze. “Did you hear _that_?”

Lestrade seemed almost... upset, now. “No, Sherlock. I didn’t hear a voice. If you’re just messing with me for fun, this really is a horrible joke...”

“Forget I said anything at all,” the taller man finished, deciding to kill the conversation before it got too sentimental or pointless.

Lestrade lightly gripped him by the arm as Sherlock tried to leave. “I’ve got you a case, if you want it. It’s small but it’s... better than nothing. Someone’s been stealing medical supplies from a local clinic. They’re not dangerous alone, but combined they can create pretty serious drugs. The file’s on my desk.” Sherlock nodded, avoiding his gaze, attempting to leave again before Greg coughed awkwardly and continued.

 “Sherlock... I know you hate me being sentimental. And I don’t want to make you... uncomfortable. But you need people. I know you prefer being on your own, but... a friend, a girlfriend, something, really, it’d do you good. You’re worrying me when you become so... intense, when it comes to cases. And hearing voices is very bad. It isn’t good for your... Your brain.”

“I’ll do the case,” is all Sherlock replied, before sweeping out of the room. It was only after he was walking out of the building that he noticed that he was shaking.

 

 

“You’re got to be fucking kidding me.”

The doctor’s clinic was small, but airy and fresh, and gave you the impression that you were slowly being sterilised by the air alone. The stench of chemicals wasn’t helping Sherlock’s headache, who grimaced as a particularly bad pound swept though his head. Granted, it was better than being shoved into a stuffy cubicle with _Anderson_. So Sherlock flashed a quick, fake smile at the doctor before him in apology.

To be perfectly honest to himself, the specialist he was interviewing could have been worse. He seemed good-natured enough, very friendly (ex-army doctor, invalided in Iraq (or perhaps Afghanistan), the phone on his desk indicated an alcoholic brother. Unhappy with his job. Unable to hold down a girlfriend. Or boyfriend? He seemed pretty smiley around Sherlock, and there was obvious product in his hair, trying to avoid the uncomfortable situation of it going grey. But then again, he had clearly winked at the other doctor and flirted with her. Interesting.)

Doctor Watson, he reminded himself. John, he had asked him to call him as they had shook hands. His hand had been warm and soft, Sherlock had noted; he could tell even through the leather gloves he bore, and his smile was almost unyielding and verging on flirtatious.

Definitely could be worse.

“Bloody hell,” Doctor Watson continued, twirling his pen and frowning at the ground. “Why would anyone want to steal medicine from us? We’re just a small clinic; we barely have enough for our own patients.”

“To make illegal drugs, either for themselves or a gang,” Sherlock explained shortly, tense as he anticipated the voice striking again. Having it happen in front of Anderson was embarrassing. Having it happen now would just cause the situation to become awkward, and for him to lose dominance in the conversation. That was always important in interrogations. So Sherlock kept his head high and informed John of the details, his own brow furrowing as John’s smile became annoyingly wider, like he was saying something funny. Eventually he stopped midway through his sentence to ask about it.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked stiffly, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck. John’s lips just spread apart even more in response, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was endearing or annoying. “What?” he repeated, in a slightly more relaxed tone.

“You’re acting as though this is crime of the century,” John replied immediately, leaning back on the chair and examining Sherlock, obviously pleased with something.

This was odd.

“A crime’s a crime,” Sherlock countered, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes. “Did you take them?” he asked slowly, astonished if it were the case. John just shook his head in return.

“No, I didn’t. But you’re like... In school, one of those kids who rats out the older boys smoking in the bathrooms. The one that everyone would grow to hate, but who has no idea why people do.” What the hell?

“Excuse me, I think that is far beyond the point,” Sherlock reacted coolly, fixating his own bright eyes into John’s dull ones. The smile began to retreat, and was replaced with something not unlike condescension.

“Just trying to be friendly. Alright then, detective, I’ll see what I can do. Uncover espionage, yeah?” Sherlock blinked.

“No... _You’re_ not helping. I can do this by myself, thank you very much.”

“I have knowledge on the patients,” John insisted, leaning forward, seemingly excited. “My co-workers, too.”

“Thank you, but no thank you,” Sherlock replied slowly, unsure why this man seemed so insistent on accompanying the case. John nodded, although the disappointment on his face was obvious. “I’ll get you the files on my co-workers, though. Unfortunately I can’t give you information on my patients.”

And when John stood up, it all hit Sherlock. The doctor fumbled about under the desk before retrieving his metal, cheap cane, hobbling to the other side of the room and beginning to flit through a filing cabinet. He wanted adventure, it was obvious. One doesn’t simply join the war effort, get sent home by injury (his shoulder, actually, was shot, it seems; the knee’s psychosomatic) and just go back to normality. This little man in his funny jumpers under his white jacket was an adrenaline junkie.

He was _bored_ , and Sherlock understood that feeling all too well, like you were being suspended in a pool of water, that you couldn’t escape from. Slowly drowning, letting the simplicity of it all fill your lungs, eventually killing you.

Hmm. Perhaps this man wasn’t so commonplace after all.

_It was difficult for Sherlock Holmes to imagine John Watson as an adrenaline seeker..._

Sherlock closed his eyes over and breathed through his nose. Not now, he silently pleaded.

_...his arms, once fit and strong, wielding assault rifles, his legs dashing from tear gas..._

Why now?

_Sherlock wasn’t a creature prone to fantasies... and so he tried his best to remain professional._

Sherlock blinked several times and realised that his face was heating up. Wait, _what_? Oh, no. The voice wasn’t going to start making him think about the friendly doctor like _that_ , was it?

_But of course, he failed. He couldn’t help but imagine Doctor Watson stroking the side of his face with his soft, warm hands..._

No. That was enough. Sherlock certainly hadn’t been thinking of John in a sexual or even romantic manner until now. Or had he? Years of training himself, emotions in general were something he kept up tight under lock and key. He lazily found his eyes wandering to where John was standing, drinking in the image.

_He couldn’t help but imagine him soaking under the hot spray of a shower, the water dripping down his-_

“Mister Holmes?” John asked innocently, turning his head to face the detective before going quiet, seeing the man staring right back, who immediately jolted and nodded.

“Yes, uh... I...”He found himself continuing to stare.

_And he couldn’t help but imagine him naked, stretched across his bed-_

Oh dear God.

“Mister Holmes!” The voice was annoyed, but John seem airly amused, throwing the files before Holmes before an awkward silence ensured. Then-

“You’re staring at my crotch.” Had he been? Oh God. What was the voice doing to him? This wasn’t like him at all. He diverted his eyes without a second glance, snatching up the papers, before clambering to his feet and briskly going past, drowning out the provocative voice echoing in his head. He paused before the exit, realising he hadn’t said anything.

“I... I apologise. This is very unlike me,” he admitted, flicking his hair out of his eyes and looking back at the blond who seemed to be holding down laughter. God, suddenly he felt very self conscious about the hair. Then inspiration hit him.

“You can help out, if you want,” he offered hopelessly, groping around the inside of his jacket and whipping out his card, placing it carefully on John’s desk. “Call me if you think of anything.” The number was partially to keep in touch, and partially to rid John of his boredom. It seemed to work. His eyes immediately lit up and he examined the number on the desk thoroughly.

“Sure. I’ll call you,” he smiled again, and- was it Sherlock’s imagination, or was that a wink? Sherlock somehow conceived a smile- a genuine one- in return, before exiting.

Great. Another mess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks gaytectives for helping me go on with this! More to come :)


End file.
